Bad At Adulting But Good At Other Things
by Amberlia
Summary: Yassen Gregorovich normally didn't tolerate insolence or a poor job. But there was something endearing in the way the girl tried to act adult, but clearly failed (she still found time to make dirty jokes, though). She was bad at adulting but he could overlook the fault for other things, such as the way her lips felt against his…Or maybe he was just growing soft and stupid. A SERIES
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITED ON SEPTEMBER 8th. **

**Yes, this is a romance between Yassen and an OC. No, the OC is not me. I like to think I'm not as stupid as Natasha but knowing my airheadedness, I might be just as bad. Whoops.**

**The time period is sometime around 1995 when he's twenty-one years old (assuming he was born in 1974). He is younger, more naive, and more willing to get his hands dirty (or you know, other parts ;)) hence the romance. This is in the same universe as "My Favorite Mistake." Natasha and Rayka are OCs, obviously, and Yassen is Yassen. Natasha is slightly older then Yassen, so maybe twenty-four to twenty-five and Rayka is slightly older (twenty-seven to thirty years old). Natasha is horny and inexperienced in the espionage business and well, a certain Russian's presence isn't doing much to help this. **

**The setting is somewhere in Russia, so most conversation in the story is in Russian unless otherwise stated. I'm not sure exactly which government Rayka and Natasha have come from, so until then, feel free to get imaginative with that until I find one. This can be read as a one-shot though this will most likely become a four-shot. I haven't decided yet (as the Girl Scouts say, I'm prepared. Or maybe it was the Boy Scouts?) **

**Anyways, enjoy reading! Don't forget to tell me what you think by leaving a review! Favoriting and following are also good ways to show your opinions :) **

**Happy Writing!**

**-Amber **

**P.S: It's one in the morning. Help. **

"So what? You guys are like friends with benefits?"

Natasha shrugged. "I suppose."

In front of her, Rayka wrinkled her nose. Natasha could see her debating it out, wondering whether to congratulate her on the catch or scold her for the riskiness of it all. Eventually, she settled on a mixture of both.

"Is he at least cute enough to risk the STDs?"

Natasha grinned. "Oh, don't worry about that. He's _hot." _

"How does he look?"

"Blonde. Blue eyes. A nice face." Truth was, the alcohol from last night had really blurred everything out. She didn't remember pulling back the shots, but she must have. Sometime between her fourth and fifth vodka shot, he'd appeared at the bar. "I don't really remember,"

Her coffee was getting cold so she raised it to her lips to take another sip. Rayka didn't look convinced. She loved her friend, but sometimes, her concern about everything was just too much.

"Relax," she set the coffee down, "I took Plan B this morning and I'll go get screened. Today, if you want."

"Do that."

Once more, she rolled her eyes but just nodded. Her head was still throbbing, the black glasses on her face hiding the red rims of her eyes and providing the perfect cover for surveillance. Her eyes scanned the cafe, but there was no one there of much importance. The whole conversation had no meaning, besides the fact to establish that yes, everything had happened last night, and yes, it was their guy. Even Rayka's nervous act was part of the plan; the normally confident woman had taken the role of the concerned yet well-meaning friend. The appearance worked; the couple at the next table were giving Natasha pitying looks. It was only Natasha, after all, that knew that Rayka could kill a man with grace and ease, and in at least four different ways.

Her eyes returned to Rayka, who was nervously fiddling her thumbs on the table. She reached across to stop her friends' hands.

"Sorry. Nervous."

"What about?" Natasha's tone was light, but the words were with meaning.

"You're screening, of course. I don't want you to ruin your life after one boy. It's not worth it."

"Thanks,"

"Really."

Natasha grinned. Rayka was still a good friend, even if she was overly concerned at times. And even if she was acting, she generally liked her. The door to the cafe opened and a gaggle of college teens filed in. Rayka glanced over, her expression just curious. Nothing suspicious here at all. Natasha sipped her coffee, allowing the caffeine to try and chase out last night's fun. There was a reason drinking took place at night; her head was throbbing and she thought she might call it a day when the man walked in.

At first glance, he didn't even warrant much suspicion. He was wearing a grey knit beanie, a black jacket, and black pants. Like Natasha, he wore eyeglasses, though his were tinted a warm amber color, hiding his eyes well. Blonde hair curled out from underneath one end of the beanie.

"Amara," she was careful to use the identities they had been provided.

"What?"

Natasha tilted her head towards the man. Recognition set in but Rayka's expression smoothed out.

"They got new cookies, huh? Too bad I'm broke."

Natasha got up, the chair scraping against the tile of the cafe. "I got you,"

She walked over to the line, standing right behind the man. The menus were right in front of him. She leaned forward, plucking one out. The man's expression didn't change much, just one of polite disinterest. Either he didn't recognize her or he was hiding it well. It had been a gamble, really, waiting in the cafe. The name had slipped out after their night of fun, and even in her drunken state, she'd filed it away carefully.

Her information was, thankfully, accurate.

"Have you been here before?"

The man tilted his head. "Occasionally,"

The line moved forward. The college kids were taking long. Was his head pounding as much as hers? He had gotten pretty hammered too, last night. She had woken up in an unknown hotel room. Rayka was knocking on the door, asking for her. The place reeked of alcohol and vomit. Room service would have a field day. She made sure to leave a generous tip on the way out.

"Would you recommend anything?"

The man took the menu from her. He was wearing gloves, careful not to leave fingerprints on anything. She was a little surprised that he was humoring her, but it made sense. Hostile or cold behavior would immediately put the spotlight on him. His voice was soft, with no trace of an accent, but it still made her shiver as he pointed out something to her.

She didn't dare look up at him as she replaced the menu. "Got it. Thanks."

The man moved forward, placing his order. He got green tea, no sugar, no honey. So he was a health freak. For some reason, Natasha liked that. Personally, she didn't believe too much in the 'watch what you eat' thing. Rayka, a vegan, had tried to urge her to join the diet but Natasha liked her diet the way it already was. Not too unhealthy, not too healthy, though. She liked ice cream, she liked brownies but she understood the importance of eating fruits and vegetables.

It was Natasha's turn to order. She ordered the recommended drink, some kind of honey thing, and Rayka's cookies. As she was paying, she saw the man paying by the other counter. He had pulled off his glove, to count the money more easily and Natasha saw the thin white scar across the top of his palm.

Score. It was him from last night. So he didn't want to recognize her or he really didn't remember. She couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had. He definitely had something with vodka, and they'd talked but she couldn't remember much besides the actual physical part. Even that was a haze of tangled limbs and sensations.

She walked back to Rayka.

"Damn it," she made a face, "it's not vegan."

Natasha sighed, then picked up a cookie and bit into it. The honey drink, she hadn't caught the name, just said it on autopilot, tasted warm and sweet in her throat.

"So how'd it go?"

Natasha glanced around the cafe but the man was nowhere to be seen. He'd left.

"Fine. He didn't recognize me. Definitely Russian."

"How could you tell?"

"Features," she gestured vaguely but Rayka was still gazing pointedly at her. "Okay, fine, I don't know for _sure, _but he drank a lot of vodka last night. That has to account for something."

"So did you. You're not Russian."

"Alright, alright. So we don't know. I can't just go up to him and ask him, can I? Eat your cookies, we're leaving."

Rayka made a face, picking up one of the cookies. "But they're not vegan."

"Fine. More for me, then," Natasha replied, as she crammed not one, not two, but three of the cookies into her mouth. With her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, she followed Rayka out of the shop.

*(*)*

Natasha was watching TV in their flat, wrapped in at least five layers of blankets when the door to the flat was kicked open.

She screamed, dropped the remote, and fell off the couch. Cocooned in the layers, she fumbled to get her hands out. By the time she'd sat up, a gun was already being pointed at her head.

"I expected more of a struggle,"

"Oh." Natasha let out a groan. "It's you." She leaned over to switch off the TV. The flat was instantly filled with quiet, instead of the animated grunts of Spongebob as he beat Squidward over the head quiet violently. They marketed that show to kids, she thought? "So...I'm taking that you're going to kill me."

"I was," the man admitted, "but this...this is quite pathetic. You have made no move to even defend yourself."

She shrugged. "Would it even help?"

"No. But at least make the effort."

"It's not worth it," she sighed, getting up slowly. "Look, can we do this in the bathtub? Dry cleaning is expensive and I'm pretty sure my roommate wouldn't appreciate finding brain and blood splattered over the couch."

The man's lips twitched like he found her amusing but he shoved her. Hard. She fell onto the couch with an "oof."

"I'm not here to kill you. As of now."

"That makes me feel better,"

"I just want answers."

Natasha scoffed. "Afraid I can't give you that."

The man tilted his head. "You seemed pretty willing last night."

She forced herself not to blush as she held the man's gaze. "The effects of vodka." She didn't add that it was also the effects of having someone attractive, someone interesting, finally talk to her. So she liked alcohol and she liked men. Fine. But that didn't mean she would refuse to do her job. "What do you need to know?"

"Your name, for one,"

"Oh? Slipped your mind?" She was sure she'd mentioned her name during their encounter last night. Or maybe this was to get her to be more comfortable with him. She couldn't remember if this had been on the list of psycological tactics to study.

"The effects of being a little busy," he replied. Blunt and straightforward. Nice. "You are clearly an amateur. I'm guessing your friend is the professional here."

The words stung but she forced herself to keep a straight face. Of course, everyone thought she was an idiot. "How do you know she was my friend?"

"Was she not the one who kept insisting you leave last night? Only a friend would do that,"

She resisted the urge to remark "what do you know about friends?" He'd come to the bar alone, no sign of any friends and the only people he'd talked to where the bartender and Natasha. "Alright. So she was my friend. You want her number? She doesn't date, though."

"Her name will suffice, for now,"

"Amara."

"Not her real name."

"You're going to have to try a lot harder than that."

The man flopped onto the couch next to her. She ignored the warm body heat and scent he gave off. Stupid hormones. Stupid attractiveness. Stupid heart. When would Rayka be back? She said she'd gone to pick up groceries, but where exactly she hadn't mentioned. So Natasha was stuck with the man until she could come back. Hopefully, he wouldn't end up killing her.

"What's your name?" She asked, turning the tides. It wouldn't hurt to know and maybe she could leave some kind of clue behind. Tell Rayka who had come here.

"Doesn't matter."

"Who are you?"

"I think you know,"

She did, actually. After the meeting in the cafe, she'd managed to pinpoint his facial features enough to run it through their government's database. He was a Russian contract killer named Yassen Gregorovich, wanted by many countries but difficult and elusive to pin down. Well, she thought, amusedly, what many countries had struggled to do over the past decade, she'd done overnight. Job well done, she supposed.

"You better leave. Before my roommate comes back."

Yassen didn't even so much as twitch. He wanted something. She wondered what would happen if she managed to arrest him. A promotion? Money? Paid vacation? The possibilities were endless. He was younger then her, twenty one or so, and he was already a wanted man. There was some shiny reward involved, that was for sure.

"Seriously. She really doesn't like it when I have people over. Especially men."

"So you do this often."

"Are you calling me easy?"

"You incriminated yourself. I just drew my conclusions from it."

She nodded, pretending to be begrudging though her hand was twitching to reach behind the sofa cushions and pull out her knife. Maybe she could stab him, slow him down long enough for Rayka to come and take care of the rest.

"Hands where I can see them," the gun gestured towards her creeping hands. She pulled them back into her lap. "You are new to this. You've let me into the flat, made no move to signall for distress-"

"Like you'd let me. I don't like the idea of being pumped with bullets." She eyed the gun, then moved her gaze back up to him. Cold blue eyes regarded her with slight boredom, though if she imagined it, he also looked a little entertained. Like the idea of seeing her make a fool out of herself was entertainment.

She didn't know whether to throttle him or straddle him. Would she somehow be able to combine both?

"Where do you keep your files?"

She pursed her lips. The gun came to rest underneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. Up close, and sober, he was even better looking then she'd thought. High cheekbones and blue eyes, framed by pale gold eyelashes. He had a sharp face, almost delicate, but it suited his leaner frame.

Still. He could kill her. That's what forced her to move.

She knocked his arm away and lunged forward. He made no move to resist, which should have been suspicious by itself. She found herself on top. She wrapped her hands around his neck.

"Are you going to snap my neck?"

"What does it look like?" A real genius, this one.

"Look down,"

She almost made a dirty joke but caught herself at the last moment as she saw the cold steel barrel of the gun being pressed against her stomach. She looked back up; he wasn't smirking but he was looking unfairly smug.

"You made an effort. Now, kindly remove your hands from my throat before I do that myself."

With force, were the unsaid words, or maybe by breaking your hands. Slowly, she got off him. So close, yet so far. Natasha glanced at the clock; when would her friend get back?

"Your files, as you were saying,"

"Right this way." Slowly, Natasha got up, walking down the hallway that led to her bedroom. Her files were stored there; Rayka's were in her room. The rest were stashed away in a locked safe, underneath the kitchen cabinets. Why would he want them? It was mainly paperwork, or at least hers were. She had never seen Rayka's, so it might be different. Besides, Rayka had the master key to all of them. She tried not to be nervous as he entered the room. She had never liked having people in her room. It felt strangely intimate and private. It was unanimous between Rayka and her to give the other space. This meant not going into each other's rooms.

"In there."

"Not even locked?" He crouched, running his hands over the smooth doors.

She scowled. Would he criticize her for every single aspect of her life? "No."

He opened the doors and pulled off a stack of papers. She winced as he started dumping them on the floor. Those took ages to alphabetize! But his back was turned. Now was her chance.

She struck out, smashing her foot into the side of his face. His head slammed into the side of the cabinet with a loud echo, and he crumpled.

Natasha blinked, kneeling next to him. He was still breathing, still alive, as far as she could see. Wow. That was ridiculously easy. He wasn't even faking it. His head had hit the edge. Though no skin had been broken, she could already see the skin, coloring an ugly shade of red. It would definitely bruise.

She dragged him over to her bed. He was warm and heavy, and she grunted as she picked him up. Still, he wasn't as well built as other men she knew. He was muscled, and lean, and tall, but not well built. Still surprisingly strong, though. She tied him with ropes and zip ties. A thousand dirty jokes sprang to her mind but they'd have to wait.

She pulled out her phone and called Rayka.

*(*)*

"And you just knocked him out?"

"Yep."

Rayka, for the hundredth time, looked at her. "You knocked out a world-class assassin with a simple kick to the head?"

"Yeah," she shrugged. "It was ridiculously easy. I really expected more."

She couldn't help smirking about it. The bastard had made fun of her, calling her inexperienced, amateurish and easy. Well, she knocked him out. She proved him wrong.

Except with the easy part. She still hadn't managed to prove that yet, and with him knocked out, she couldn't exactly do it. He looked peaceful knocked out. Kind of like an angel.

Damn ovaries, she thought, knock it off.

Rayka nodded. "This is big. We have a world-class assassin in our clutches. You know this could mean we're promoted?"

Natasha snorted. "Can you even be promoted anymore? I mean, you're like, at the top already. The next place for you might as well be a handler."

She blushed. "Come on, that's not true,"

But it was, thought Natasha. There was nowhere else for Rayka to go. She'd hit the limit. Now she'd have to surpass the limit and move on, while Natasha stayed at the same level. She tried not to be too bitter about it. She was happy for Rayka.

"I have to go get the handler," Rayka was saying, "he needs to go into custody immediately. Stay here, and don't let him move. I'll be thirty minutes at most."

Natasha nodded. Yassen was tied up (she snickered at the implications) and there was almost no way he could get out. All she needed to do was keep him occupied for thirty minutes and she'd be on her way home. Good to go. She was starting to grow sick of Russia's cold weather and near-constant snow and would enjoy the warmer climates before she'd be sent away again.

Rayka left. The clock ticked down. Natasha paced the room, bored. There was a gun in her hand, the safety on so she wouldn't accidentally shoot herself in the head. Yassen hadn't even stirred yet, and despite her friend's reassurances that he was in fact, very much alive, she was really starting to doubt it. She walked over to the bed. If he was dying, and their handler came back, looked at her, looked at the bruise on her head, and then looked back at her, she knew the implications would not be pleasant.

He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Frowning, she leaned over, pressing two fingers to his neck to check for his pulse-

And found herself being flipped over. A whoosh of air left her as something hard and heavy pinned her to the bed. She screamed before a hand covered her mouth.

"I'm tempted to ask your age because really, the general level of incompetence I'm seeing here is astounding. Children could do better then you,"

She struggled against his hands, though it was a lost cause. He had managed to pin her in a way so her arms were trapped against her side, his knees pressing them in. He pulled the remains of the zip ties of his wrists (how had he managed to take them off in the first place?) and grabbed the rope that had been used to keep him in place.

He tied her hands to the bed, the way she'd done to him. Natasha felt flush as his eyes raked over her body, finally settling on her face. It was good to see that, in situations of dire trouble, her brain stopped working and her hormones still found it appropriate to beg her to procreate. But another part of her brain knew she was staring Death in the face and would soon be looking at the barrel of the gun.

"Let me go!"

"No." He stepped off her. His eyes were still cold, reminding her of a pond she used to visit when she was a child and her parents had been alive. The pond had seemed so infinite, so endless, it's dark blue depths promising mystery and adventure to those who were brave enough to swim to its icy depths. But it also promised death for failure.

That's how she felt, right now, looking into his eyes. She closed her eyes, waiting for the gunshot, the brief pain and the darkness that would follow. She was definitely a believer, and so she could at least join her parents in heaven.

But it never came.

"Your roommate will come back and she will see you here. I will be long gone by then. Do not pursue me, or even try."

Natasha slowly opened her eyes. He was standing there, looking fine despite being knocked out only a few hours prior. The bruise on his head was discolouring against his pale skin, from red to egg plant purple. Her gun was in his hands. She realized how ironic it would have been if he had chosen to kill her with her own weapon.

He cocked his head. "I had a pleasant yet brief time in your company, Natasha. Hopefully, the next time we meet, you will be somewhat more...prepared."

She glared at him. Once again, her brain was really helpful when she needed it. She should be struggling, or moving, or getting out, but she couldn't. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn it.

"Now, I must knock you out."

Natasha didn't even get a chance to protest before a sharp knock to her head sent pain flaring through her body. She saw him leave the room, his slim figure disappearing as the door shut behind him softly and everything faded to black.

*(*)*

"Cossack," a male voice picked up the phone when he called.

"Nile," he said, perfectly pleasant, perfectly neutral even though he hated the man and the man probably hated him too. They were competitors, competitors for the same team, but competitors nonetheless. Nile wasn't taking it so well that Yassen was first in Malagasto and Yassen wasn't taking it so well that Nile was clearly Mrs. Rothman's favorite. The man had only been a year out of Malagasto before Nile had been snatched by her. Meanwhile, Yassen was still independent, not tied down to be a right-hand man to anyone. If John Rider had lived, though...maybe. The possibility had always been there. John would have accepted him, he knew.

"You were captured," the language of choice seemed to be French.

"I'm aware," there was a hint of dryness in the words. Nile paused.

"Was it them?"

"Someone from Operation Monarch."

"Oh?" Yassen didn't understand how the man interjected so much amusement in the word but it irritated him. The sadist was probably smiling. "They knocked you out?"

"I got out. Where should I meet the driver?"

Another pause. This time, Nile's voice was more controlled as he said, "The address is being sent to your phone. What was the girl's name?"

"The girl?" Yassen pulled on his jacket. He had come back to the apartment briefly to grab his jacket and his belongings, which hadn't been packed out of his suitcase anyway.

"The one who knocked you out."

"Natasha." So this was the game he wanted to play? Yassen smiled thinly, closing the door to his flat and setting his suitcase down.

"How did you meet her again?"

"She was following me."

"Ah, Yassen," the man laughed. Yassen could have crushed the little bastard's throat, like he had done in Malagasto, underneath Professor Yermalov's watchful eye. Though the man always amused; Yassen had the feeling that he liked the entertainment. Yassen had been Yermalov's favorite, but even so, he wasn't allowed to harm Nile seriously enough to inflict permanent damage. But he did allow him to get away with a lot more than deemed safe. "What happened to the bar? Your night of fun? That cab? Couldn't keep your hands off her, could you?"

"For my cover." Yassen locked the apartment and went downstairs to return the key to the landlady.

"Cover?"

"I needed to get close to someone in the operation to gain access to information. The girl seemed the best bet." This wasn't a lie; he had recognized her, Natasha, from the files he had been provided. But then again, he was so hammered from the alcohol that if the thought had registered, it was replaced by a "she's pretty, go talk to her" command. His lizard brain seemed to follow that one pretty well. "Anything else?"

"Mrs. Rothman wants a report,"

"Of course," he said, even though he knew Mrs. Rothman would have Nile go through the report first. The landlady wasn't home; he tucked the key underneath her door, checking his phone for the address. It was nearby. The air was cold, chilly, and he had lived in Russia long enough to know when it might snow. He started walking, suitcase in hand, hat pulled over the bruise, hiding it as much as possible. Makeup had lessened the effects of it but he couldn't put any more of it on without someone looking closer. It was now a light purple, and from a distance, no one could tell he had been knocked on the head. "Anything else?"

"I expect Mrs. Rothman will want those details in her report," Nile said.

"I will speak to her personally," he said, airily on purpose. The tone must have annoyed Nile because he hung up a moment later. Always emotional, that one. It was rather...dangerous.

But he could plot Nile's death later. Natasha's friend must have come back. Rayka, he had caught the name. If Rayka was back, with the handler, they would be on the lookout for him. He broke into a casual stride. His passport was Thomas Ferdinand, Spanish native. He had already dyed his hair a black and put in brown contacts. He found the driver.

"Hello," he greeted in Spanish.

The driver grunted back something. " Tu es Thomas?" The language was purposefully French. Thomas gave him a blank look but settled back in his seat. It was the driver. He closed the door, his demeanor changing instantly.

"The airport."

*(*)*

"_Hey," _

_Yassen blinked, looking up from his drink. "Hello." A dark-haired girl was staring at him, gold-brown eyes inviting him. The alcohol in his system was kind of blurring her features, but he could see she was pretty. _

"_What's your name?" _

"_Yasha," it was the first name that came to mind and it had stumbled off his tongue before he could think about it too much. "You?" _

"_Natasha. Nice to meet you. Do you come here often?" _

"_No." The loud music, lights, and people were not something he was a fan of. He liked his peace and quiet. _

"_Not much of a talker, are you?" _

_He held up his glass. "I prefer to let this do the talking." _

_For some reason, the girl found this funny. She laughed, leaning closer to him. He let her, though his mind screamed at him to pay attention. He was attractive but recognizable. It had only been a day or two since Sharkovksy's murder; his people might still be thirsty for revenge. This would be the perfect time to slip something into his drink. Stab him. _

_But the girl's perfuming was distracting. And she had nice eyes. So he let her stay. If it came to it, he could always snap her neck. The girl's friend had come to check on her, looking concerned but the girl had waved her away. _

_They made conversation, or, well, she made conversation. Yassen was not much of a talker even in his inhibited state but he was much more willing to share things then when he was sober. Natasha had eventually leaned closer to him and he felt stupidly nervous, knowing what was going to happen next. He hadn't had many opportunities to kiss girls as a child, and he was worried his inexperience would show. But her mouth was warm and soft against his, and he felt himself relax a little. For the first time in years, he might have been enjoying himself. _

_Of course, one thing lead to another and they had hailed a taxi. He wasn't sure where they went. Was it his room? Might have been. She was drunk enough to need help getting out of the cab. _

_They went to his room. Natasha was clearly experienced. Experienced enough to warrant suspicion that she was a prostitute. But she had smiled, grabbed his hands and told him to relax, pulling something out of her pocket. _

_At least sexual education hadn't been lacking in Estrov. He may have enjoyed himself, a little too much. They might have been a little too loud. But they existed in the moment, and he liked the way she felt underneath his hands. Soft, smooth, and firm. Nothing like the weapons of mass destruction he wielded every day. _

_Eventually, she had passed out on his chest and he had slid her off and went to take a shower. _

_The feel of the cold water on his back snapped him back to reality. He had done it. He had taken a girl to his room and bedded her. Looking from the clinical aspect of it, she might have been positive for something. HIV? Chlamydia? The possibilities were there. And his DNA was all over her, ready for someone to pick off. And examine. And trace back to him. _

_He had gotten too close to her. Quietly, he had gathered his things as she slept, ignoring the pounding in his head. He had wiped everything down, leaving the keycard on the table. _

_He left her in the hotel room. She could figure the rest out for herself. _

*(*)*


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha collected the 100 rubles tip she had received and went back to the stage, scouring the edges for any more men. She tucked the rubbles away into the purse attached to her hips. She hiked the strap of her bra up, the smile on her face disappearing. Stupid bastards. Did all men think with their dicks or was she just so unlucky to encounter all the ones that did here at Dasha's Club?

She spotted a man talking to the manager. She ducked underneath someone's arm and moved to the other side of the room. Not him, again. After last time? Really? Hopefully, he hadn't seen her though really, he was an assassin and the only way he'd be able to live this long in the business was if he was aware of his surroundings. So the very real chance he'd seen her was still on the table.

Yassen fucking Gregorovich. Even with his hair dyed a dark shade of brown, wearing a black sweater and well-fitted jeans, it was him. The Devil himself. So she was being overdramatic. She was sick and tired of the cold weather. She wanted to go home but she couldn't. She was stuck here, possibly forever. All because of him, and his damn ability to escape. What would have happen if she hadn't leaned over to check his pulse? She could have shot him, from the far proximity, if he tried to attack her. But nope. She was here, in cold, cold, Russia with its good food, good vodka, but terrible weather. Possibly until she died. Hmm. Maybe she could convince him to shoot her dead. She wished he'd done it, in that room, so at least she wouldn't be stuck in this godforsaken country with no way out.

Too late. Natasha stilled as she felt a hand tap her on the back.

"I'd like to get to know you a little better," a voice said, close, breath tickling her ear, "hopefully somewhere more intimate."

"Really?" She spun around. Blue eyes met her own. "You could try a lot better than that."

The lines were so generic it almost made her laugh. All men used those lines, and really, someone as intelligent as he couldn't think of _anything _else? Thankfully, it was Thursday evening, so the club wasn't very full. What men remained had their attentions occupied by the other beautiful girls.

Honestly, how Natasha had gotten a job here was beyond her. She didn't consider herself classically beautiful. Her skin was too dark, her hair too curly, and the other girls, with their perfect skin, and perfect hair were, of course, the first choice. But it seemed that strip clubs in Russia were diverse, and Dasha's Club liked a little of everything. Though she might get as much attention as other girls, she still scraped by with a living.

He shrugged. "I'm thinking the allure of twenty-four thousand rubles might motive you a little more. But if not-"

"Whatever. Come on,"

Natasha may have hated him but twenty-four thousand rubles? That was a lot. There was no way she'd say no to that amount of money. She led him to a private taped off area. The guards nodded at him as he passed, and she felt a flare of irritation. No identity check? Was he that friendly with the club? Corruption was easy here, so she wasn't totally surprised. Still, a little curiosity might have been good.

There was a couch, dimmed lights, and a cabinet. She didn't bother touching the cabinet; for the most part, she tried to avoid it. Yassen sat on the couch, completely relaxed. In charge of the situation.

She found that hot. An assertive man? Nice. But at the same time, she also didn't like men who tried to ruin people's lives so she wasn't going to allow him to harbor the delusion that this was something more than business.

"So...what is it? A lap dance?"

"I just want to talk,"

Natasha snorted. "Yeah right. Like you're going to pay twenty-four thousand rubles to talk to me."

"Really. And since when did you become so cynical?"

If he was trying to flirt...she wasn't sure if he was doing a horrible job or a good one. She felt hot and possibly bothered, but that may be because the room's heaters were broken and his presence had definitely thrown a wrench in her plans. But twenty-four thousand rubles were twenty-four thousand rubles, a hell of a lot of money, and if he wanted to waste his hour talking to her...that wasn't her problem. So she crossed her arms, leaning against the wall.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since you escaped,"

Yassen's face didn't even change. He probably knew that was almost a year ago when her government had let her go. There was just a letter; they didn't even allow her to get on the plane with Rayka. Her belongings, everything that she had, or what she had left, was gone. She tried to get in touch with them, tell them to ship everything back to her, but her passport, her credit cards were all gone. Natasha wondered what they had done with it. Sold it? Burned was more likely. Rayka couldn't do much either, just send her off into the streets of Russia with a thousand ruble note and a quiet, "Good luck." Rayka had probably gone home, gotten promoted while Natasha starved. She had promised herself she wouldn't be bitter but it was hard not to.

"Interesting,"

Natasha scowled. "Speak now for the lap dance or forever hold your peace."

"I have an hour with you."

"I can always leave."

"I raise my offer to thirty thousand rubles."

That made Natasha pause. She turned to look at him. He didn't look smug but he probably felt smug. "What?"

"Thirty thousand rubles. If you listen to my offer."

"Why do you care so much?" She rubbed her head. The heat was really starting to get to her. "We met once…"

"Perhaps I found you interesting. Worth of my time."

"Why?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Because you are like me."

She crossed her arms, eyeing him doubtfully. They looked as different as could be. He had pale skin; hers was a dark brown color. His hair was straight and blonde; hers was dark and curly. Clear blue eyes met dark brown ones across the room before Natasha gave up.

"I'm listening,"

"Do you want to leave this country?"

"Who ever said anything about leaving?"

"Oh?" There was some dry amusement in his voice now. How he managed to interject it into one word was something Natasha was jealous about. But still considered him to be the bastard that ruined her life. Couldn't he have waited some other time, knock some other agent out, and then get them sacked? Why did it have to be _her?_ "Do you like the cold weather? The people? The food?"

"Is this a test?" He was, after all, Russian. "I'm not falling for it."

"I want honesty."

"Fine. I fucking hate it here, and I want to leave."

He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything.

"I like the food, though. And the vodka."

Yassen leaned forward. "We can leave tonight if you want."

"What?" She wasn't sure she'd heard him right. "How-"

"Leave the details to me. Do you have anything of value that you need to get?"

Natasha nodded. There was her locket, the last reminder of her parents, and her clothes. "What about my passport?"

"You won't need it for now."

"But-"

"If you trust me, you won't need it."

Natasha hesitated. Did she trust him? After all, he'd done to her, could she really put her stability, what little salvageable part of her life she had, in the hands of the man who'd ruined it all?

"Why should I trust you?"

"I didn't kill you."

"You made me lose my job," there was a bitter edge to the words.

"No. Your failure to perform your job made you lose it. Though I will admit that it was not right for them to let you go the way they did,"

How did he know that? She didn't bother asking. It seemed Yassen the Ominiscent knew everything, apparently.

"Fine." She bit her life. "I'll clock out. Where should we meet?"

"I'll meet you at your flat,"

"Stalker?"

"I prefer the term 'hyper-observant'."

*(*)*

She stuffed her clothes into her suitcase. The locket went around her neck. She'd changed into different clothes because damn, the temperature had somehow dropped even more. The heat in her flat, was, of course, broken, so even with the additional layers, she was shivering.

She saw a blue car outside that hadn't been there before. Not many cars bothered visiting this part of the neighborhood, so it must have been him. She took one last look around the flat, having already left the key outside the landlord's door. She wouldn't say she would miss the flat; it was leaky, filled with cockroaches and in the dead of winter, she would almost always be shivering underneath the various blankets she had. Rats would eat the food in her fridge, which barely did its job anyway (she was honestly more surprised that anything warm-blooded could even live in the cold climates). But it had been home and it had been somewhere to sleep off the streets. Besides, the rats had nearly accepted her as one of their own. Who knows? If she'd stayed longer, she might have become part of the pack.

Yassen was in the driver's seat.

He watched her as she silently flung her single suitcase into the trunk and got into the passenger seat. She buckled up her seatbelt, and the car started to move.

"I trust you've sorted everything out?"

"Yes." Natasha chewed her lip. "What about my passport? If we're leaving the country, I'll need to get a new one."

He didn't say anything. The roads stretched on, slowly bringing them out of her neighborhood and into the wealthier, more well-lit places. They drove mostly in silence. He didn't even turn the radio on, which Natasha was fine with, because she preferred silence. He wasn't going out into the main city, she noted. He seemed to be taking side roads, though they were lit. No one seemed to be out so late; there had been a weather forecast with the promise of snow.

She sighed, shifting her position a little.

"Are you cold?"

She shook her head.

"You're not Russian," it wasn't a question. "Why did you even come here?"

"You know. A mission."

"Why here? You must have had some option in choosing where you get to go,"

Natasha swallowed. "Maybe I just needed somewhere to go,"

His eyes flickered over to her briefly before returning them to the road. "So what you're saying is that you accepted the first random mission that you could take."

"Yeah."

"Do you normally make questionable choices?"

"It's not questionable. I needed somewhere to stay, and Rayka was, is, my friend." She corrected herself quickly. He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Friends are dangerous in this business. I doubt your friend felt any qualms about leaving you behind."

"She left me a thousand rubles."

Yassen scoffed. "And got promoted to assistant head of the foreign branch. In the long run, a thousand rubles were nothing for her."

Natasha's stomach twisted but she said nothing, just set her mouth in a hard line and continued to watch the streets outside. He was too nosey for his own damn good. So Rayka got promoted. She felt happy for her.

Or she should have felt happy for her. The memory of her friend was now slightly stained, ruined, with the knowledge that Rayka had food to eat, a warm bed, and someone who loved her. While she starved. While she literally had to work hours on end to make needs meet, entertaining men old enough to be her father if he'd been alive. Her eyes felt wet; she swiped at them, angrily, hiding her sniffle behind a cough. Though she hardly believed he was that fool. At least he didn't say anything.

"We're being followed,"

"By who?"

"Don't turn around. They might know us."

They drove on in silence. Suddenly, there was a loud crack in the normally still night air, and Yassen swerved the car to the left. If Natasha hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, she would have been flung against him. She grabbed the armrests, as another loud crack shot through the air.

Their car accelerated. She caught a glance of the pursuits-two red cars, one white, all the same make and model, it seemed. Yassen turned the car onto another road. She gasped as she felt him go off road. It was dark, except for the headlights which illuminated the path ahead.

She didn't see whether the cars were still following. She just hung on for dear life.

Suddenly, the car started to slow down. Yassen's foot was still on the pedal. She watched as he pressed it harder still, his entire foot almost flat against. But the car was slowing down. Their speed dropped from around fifty to barely fifteen. Yassen didn't get mad or upset like she'd thought he would. Instantly, he calmly turned off the car and got out. She heard the trunk open and he came back.

"I hope you know how to shoot," he said, handing her a gun. She nodded, her hands working on auto pilot as she took off the safety. Her mind registered that it was a Berrata. She got out of the car.

Two cars were parked behind them. The lights cut off almost immediatly as she emerged, and they were left in the dark. Where was Yassen? She heard a bang somewhere from her left. Instinctivly, she fired the gun.

She heard a yell and assumed she'd found mark. A hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Run," she heard him say.

Natasha didn't stick around to find out what his plan was.

!*!

Okay, so maybe she should have stayed. If she had stayed, she wouldn't be freezing her ass off in a pub that, frankly, served some very questionable vodka. Still, she continued to down shots, hoping the alcohol would warm her body.

"Another one," she told the bartender, hoping her voice didn't slur as much as she hoped it did. The man set down another shot in front of her, no doubt silently judging her. But she could handle her alcohol. She was a big girl. She was-

"I'll take a scotch,"

She turned. A man was sitting next to her, dressed in a dark jacket. Vaguely, she realized she recognized him. What was his name? Something starting with a Y. Or maybe an I. Ian? Ivan?

"Hi," okay, she was definitely slurring now, "you're cute. What's your name?"

The bartender gave the man a strange look. It looked suspicously like...pity. The man took a sip of his drink, turned to her, and said, "I leave you alone for two hours and you decide to go get hammered,"

"At least buy me dinner first," she giggled. She hadn't really hard the rest of his sentence, besides the 'I', 'you', 'alone' and 'hammered' part. "I could really go for some fries…"

The man sighed. "Come on. We're leaving."

"One more,"

"No." Strong hands grabbed her by the arm. She whined in pain, trying to pry them off.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"Yes," the man said, apologetically. In her drunken haze, Natasha had the time to admire the cut of his face. "She has a habit of getting a little drunk sometimes. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience."

The bartender looked at her. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"No, of course not, silly."

There was a loud sigh. She heard rustling sounds. The man was counting out money, for some reason. He took out a huge chunk of the bills, handing them to the bartender. The bartender pocketed them.

"Of course she is."

"We'll get engaged next month," the man agreed, then grabbed Natasha and led her away. The cold night air whipped past her and she felt something wet and cold falling on her face. Snow.

She saw a car door open and felt someone shove her inside.

"Can you put on your own seatbelt?"

She grabbed the seatbelt and tried to slip her head through it. The man sighed, clearly annoyed, and grabbed it from her, buckling her in. It was warm in the car; she felt sleepy and contented.

"Night," she mumbled, before passing out.

*(*)*

Amazing, thought Yassen, the stupid girl had managed to drink herself into debt. For someone who wasn't Russian, she could consume an almost dangerous amount of vodka.

He sighed as he stared at the bill, before quickly paying it off. Next to him, Natasha snoozed peacefully, face turned away from him. Her dark curly hair was the only sight he had of her.

His employers had already told him that he'd better have a hell of a good reason for going for the girl. He already decided that he wasn't going to mention the fact that they had a one night stand. Or that she was the stupidest person in the business he had ever met. Or that she kind of reminded him of himself. Though he had a feeling Julia Rothman might know a thing or two, the other board members couldn't be bothered. They had better things to do than follow his every movement.

If they didn't, they needed better hobbies. Dr. Three had a few that came to mind.

He started the car. The other car's tires had been punctured out, and he only had one spare tire. He had ditched the car, grabbing her stuff, and walked in the cold to the nearest main road. Not that the cold bothered him so much. He was a native Russian, used to climates that were even colder than this. There was a car parked in plain sight, seemingly the only one on the road. It was a Vauxhall Cavalier, a 1990 model that would be easy to hotwire and steal. He tried the handle. It was unlocked. Wow. There were people stupider then Natasha in this world. Yassen started the car and it hadn't taken long to figure out where she'd gone.

Although he had managed to eliminate their pursuers, though it had come at a cost. He grimaced as he felt the large bruise that stretched across his side. They thought they could take him quietly? They were wrong.

It was too late to go to the airfield now so they'd have to go to find somewhere to stay. He saw the lights up ahead and saw a small motel type lodging come into view. It was snowing harder now. If it continued snowing tomorrow, the airfield might even be closed. Yassen rubbed his forehead. If he had escaped by himself, this would have never happened.

He pulled the car onto the side of the road, deciding to leave Natasha sleeping here. He walked inside, noting the entrances, exits and which ways the door swung. His pursuits were taken care of, but there was always the chance that they'd send reinforcements. He scanned the area casually as he waited for the receptionist to show at the desk. There were no security cameras here. Perfect.

"Hello,"

He nodded in greeting as the receptionist appeared from behind the desk. He assessed her for threats. She was small and unassuming but Yassen had learned to never judge someone on the outward appearance. Big or small, old or young, everyone was a threat in some kind of way. That's why he tried to not get too close to people. One person had been the exception, but now he was dead.

"How many?"

"Two rooms,"

The receptionist shook her head. "We have one."

Yassen didn't react much, though he could have used the privacy. Natasha may have gotten more intimate then anyone else in his life had ever gotten before, but he wasn't going to let her push that much more. Not unless he was actually hammered. Why had he gotten hammered that night, anyway? Was it the stress that had come from killing someone? The fact that he'd learned of John Rider's betrayal? That his mentor, the one person in his life, had turned out to be fake? How much of their interactions had been real and how many had been setups? Whatever had happened, he'd seen her at the bar, thought she was pretty and talked to her. Of course, alcohol-impaired his judgment, and he'd had quite a lot, anyway. Much more than was safe. SCORPIA would, of course, not find out about this little lapse of judgment, just like they wouldn't find out about Natasha and how they'd met.

The receptionist handed him the key. He walked back to the car. Natasha was still fast asleep.

"Wake up," he shook her shoulder, roughly. She mumbled something, turning away from him. "Wake up. We're at the hotel."

She, of course, didn't wake up. Was this another lapse in judgement? He sighed, feeling the startings of a headache. Though it made him feel slightly better to know that it would be nowhere near the headache she'd have tomorrow morning from her hangover. He couldn't leave her alone in the car; they weren't that far from the pursuers, and it was already a gamble coming here.

He grabbed her, hoping that she'd stand up on her own once he got her out of the car. The exact opposite. She slumped forward, onto his shoulders. Yassen didn't believe in ghosts or the afterlife. He was not a religious man. But he could almost swear that the ghost of John Rider had come back from the dead, shaking his head in that half-amused, half exasperated way of his.

"Stupid girl," he muttered, grabbing her as he slammed the car door shut. He walked past the reception area with her leaning on him, eyes still closed. The receptionist gave them a suspicious look.

"She drank too much." The magical words. The receptionist's face changed into one of pity.

"Your girlfriend?"

"Yes." This time, he didn't have to bribe her to look the other way. One perk of having Natasha unconscious. "I think she can just sleep it off."

There was no elevator. He gave her one last aggressive shake.

"Wake up!"

Of course, she didn't. He was never going to let her touch alcohol again. She could clearly not be trusted. For a moment, he was slightly worried that she might be dead. But she was still breathing. He checked her pulse. It seemed normal. Since she wasn't going to wake up, he'd have to carry her. He considered dumping her at the bottom of the stairs and leaving her. She seemed comfortable enough sleeping anywhere, but Yassen had yet to become that cruel.

Gritting his teeth, he picked her up, fireman style, and started to carry her up the flights of stairs.

*(*)*

He dumped her on the bed, not bothering to tuck the blankets around her. If she was cold, she could tuck herself in.

Natasha started snoring. He didn't feel tired at all. He'd already made it a habit to get no more than six hours of sleep per night and he was slowly starting to shave that time down to four hours. In the meanwhile, he could contact Mrs. Rothman. He dialed the number on his phone. She picked up on the third ring.

"Ah, Cossack,"

To SCORPIA, he was on business. He was not Yassen. He was not Gregorovich. He was simply 'Cossack,' the trained killer.

"Mrs. Rothman," he said, politely.

"You have gotten the girl?"

"Yes, ma'am,"

"Hmm. Natalia, was it?"

It was some kind of test. To see how much he cared about the girl, enough to correct his superior on her name. In the end, he decided not to say anything

"Yes," he said, "she is here with me."

"You have reached the airfield?"

"Not yet. We were attacked."

"And you took care of them?"

Yassen remembered the way the men had looked, bleeding out on the forest floor. How solid their skin had felt underneath his hand as he checked for a pulse and found none. Killing had become easier after Sharkovsky. "Yes, ma'am,"

"Excellent. You have done well, Cossack."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, more out of politeness than anything else. Alarm bells were going off in his head. Excellent? They were delayed, attacked, and now stuck here. Hardly excellent. Hardly enough to warrant a compliment. Something was off. "Anything else, ma'am?"

"We have another assignment for you. One we think you'll handle rather well. But let's discuss that when you come back."

"Fine, ma'am,"

She cut the phone. Yassen sat down on the couch, flicking through the channels mindlessly. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong but he didn't know what it was. He felt uneasy.

*(*)*

When Natasha woke up the next morning, three things registered in her head.

First-she felt horrible. It felt like thousands of people were stabbing something in her brain. She moved her head and regretted it, because now the people scattered, to different locations, more widespread and now they were angry she'd moved so the stabbing increased in intensity.

Second-Yassen was nowhere to be seen.

And third, they were in a hotel room. Why were they in a hotel room? What had exactly gone down in the hotel room was something she did not remember, nor care to remember. She felt the rising panic in her throat, the way she always did when she knew what was going to happen but was powerless to do anything about it.

Yassen walked out of the bathroom. "What's the matter?" He had a strange look on his face.

"Nothing,"

"You're lying."

"I said it's nothing." She couldn't even look at him. She felt disgusted. Not only with herself, but with him. She had trusted him. Look what that did.

"You're crying,"

"I noticed."

"Why?"

She wiped away the tears. "Can't someone cry in peace?"

"Normally, people are afraid of me, but I've never seen someone cry before," he mused, "this is a first."

"Bastard! Don't touch me!"

Yassen frowned. "If you think something happen, it didn't. I don't touch sleeping girls."

Right. Since when did assassins have morals? She hunched up her knees to her chest. Something had taken off her socks and boots, but her jacket and everything else were still left on. Her head throbbed, reminding her that maybe she should keep her mouth shut.

"What happen?"

"You got drunk," he said flatly, "and it was too late to go the airfield. You fell asleep; I brought you up here."

"Did you touch me?"

"No."

"Liar."

He sighed, looking exasperated but he wasn't the one with a headache and the paranoid feeling that he had been violated. "If you don't want to believe me, fine. We have to move. It's already eight."

Why did she resent him in the first place? Oh, right. He ruined her life. Why was she even sticking around with him in the first place? For all she knew, he was using her. His back was turned. A well-placed kick could knock him out, right?

Slowly, she stood up. So far, so good. The people in her head protested but she ignored them as she lashed out with a sidekick.

Either he had anticipated it or she was out of practice. Or a combination of both. She felt her foot being grabbed, and twisted. She would have fallen if he hadn't caught her first.

"What is your intention? To get yourself killed?"

"Let go of me," she spat, ignoring the way his body heat felt against her. He did.

"We have to go. Attack me again and I will have to subdue you."

Despite the glares she was sending him, she couldn't help but shiver a little, and not because of the cold. He probably knew anyway. He let her go, and she turned away from him.

Downstairs, the receptionist gave her a disapproving look as Yassen signed out and returned the key.

'What did you tell her?" Natasha hissed underneath her breath.

"Nothing."

"Then why was she looking at me, like...that,"

Yassen didn't smirk. That would require movements of his facial muscles, but he did come very close. "Let's just say you drank a lot. Much more then you could handle."

Natasha blushed but didn't say anything. She knew she had drunk a lot but what exactly had happened was something she couldn't remember. Maybe she was an alcoholic. She opened the car door and got into the passenger seat. It was a different car from yesterday, she noted. The other car had been ditched, then.

Yassen got into the driver's seat. "No more stops. We have to get to the airstrip before it starts to snow."

She nodded. "Airstrip?"

"I said you wouldn't need a passport. It's company-owned."

"You work for a company?"

He nodded. "They agreed to allow me to bring you out of the country."

Natasha turned towards him, startled. "You said you were only taking me out of the country."

"I am," his eyes were still on the road. He drove with both hands on the steering wheel, something she found oddly endearing. So relaxed in other aspects of his life but he had to have both hands on the steering wheel. Personally, she had always driven with one handoff, but that was a dangerous habit and she knew it. "My employers would like to meet you."

"Why?"

He tilted his head to the side. Why did he do that? It seemed like he was trying to reassure her into thinking it, or maybe he was the one doing the thinking. "I suppose they think you might be valuable to their cause. You knew my name, but not the company I am working for?"

"I wasn't cleared to see that."

"Well, it would have been beneficial if you had." Yassen didn't elaborate. He wasn't telling her something. Natasha gave him one last look, half suspicion, half curiosity, before turning away and spending the rest of the drive looking out of the window.

*(*)*

**A/N: Hopefully, this makes up for the fact that I haven't updated any of my stories. **

**Anyway, Billie Eilish just released a new song called "Good girls go to hell." It is definitely a bop. **

**So this story is following the 1995 timeline, which is what I call it because it means Alex Rider as born in 1995. This timeline seems to be the most accurate amongst stories so it's what I'm using. In this chapter, Natasha is older, more suspicious and less naive. There are also some indicators of trauma. Like I mentioned before, she is slightly older then Yassen. **

**They met a year ago, and Natasha got fired from her job, so she's stuck in the country. Yassen is currently working for SCORPIA and Alex Rider was just born around this time. John and Helen are dead. Alex is currently living with Ian. **

**Special thanks to SmileyRusy for her kind words! We have a lot in common. If you are as unsatisfied with the Stormbreaker film as I am, you will definitely want to check out her work, which is a remake of the film (except a hundred times better). **

**As always, happy writing! Summer break is concluding so I'm :( **

**-Amber **


	3. Chapter 3

**Woohoo! I crossed 100k words on this site. Yes! **

**As a celebration, I have a new writing resolution. For the most part, I will try to increase the chapter lengths of my stories. Although my stories are normally 2k-3k words per chapter, I think for this story, I'll aim for 5k-6k per chapter. I feel like otherwise, it'll sound rushed and disconnected. Also, my ability to proofread seriously increases **_**after **_**I've posted something so I really need to take one weekend, go back, and edit everything. **

**Anyway, I just posted an Alex Rider timeline, so if you ever want to check that out to be as accurate as possible, feel free to do that. I originally created that because Mr. Horowitz picked up each new book from the current year, so there are a lot of inconsistencies. Hopefully, this timeline sorts out the majority of those. School starts next week for me and I have practices, too, so I'll try to post chapters when I can. **

"Are we there yet?"

"If we were, I would tell you."

Natasha sighed, leaning her head against the cool glass of the window. They had been driving for a long time, or so it seemed to her. Her head was still pounding, though the people had quieted down. Perhaps they were taking a break to have breakfast.

"Why should I trust you?" She asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. No one asked someone why they should be trusted, especially after that someone is the one driving you. Yassen was a good driver, confident enough to navigate the icy roads, but that didn't mean he couldn't still deliberately kill them.

"I don't know. Why should you?"

Natasha sighed, irritably. She had quickly learned that Yassen was one of those irritating people who never actually supplied answers. Instead, they encouraged (or in this case, taunted) people to find their own. "I don't know. Because you're rich?"

"You could have easily followed hundreds of other men. Men richer then I am. Men who aren't the dangerous threat I am. Who I am sure would have taken you out of the country, too."

Her nose wrinkled as she understood the implications. "Well, no one asked me."

"If they had, would you have agreed?"

Natasha thought about it. The people were coming back from breakfast. She didn't like the answer, so she turned away from him. The answer was no. Though Yassen may have wrecked her life and may continue to wreck her life, it was always better than servicing rich, entitled men. If she was going to service anyone, be at the mercy of anyone, it seemed that his mercy would have to do. At least he didn't expect specific services from her. But then, what did he expect? There was no way he was taking her for free. There was something expected of her.

Should she ask? Would he even answer? She had a feeling he wouldn't.

The Russian countryside zoomed past them, and despite the snow covering the ground in a thin, white sheen, she thought it was beautiful.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"As long as you're not out there."

"Yeah." She remembered something he had said to her, something that had nagged her for a while. "Why did you take me? You said that I reminded you of yourself, but I don't see how."

Yassen's eyes flicked to the car dash like he was considering turning on the radio. She had hit on a sensitive topic. Score one. Hiding a smile, she turned towards him. She saw him stiffen, just a little, on the steering wheel and it satisfied her to know that Yassen Gregorovich, emotionless, killer, and the bastard who ruined her life, felt uncomfortable by one little question. And if he felt uncomfortable, she was absolutely, one hundred percent, you can bet your fucking children, keep pressing on it.

"We certainly don't look alike, do we?"

"No." There was clear disdain in the man's voice. Had Christmas come early? It might have.

"Then please do elaborate."

"Turn on the radio,"

"Yassen?"

"What?"

"Are you uncomfortable?"

Again, Yassen's eyes flickered to the radio. Definitely uncomfortable. He may be cold, but he wasn't ice. Yet.

"Yassen?"

No response. She took that as a cue to go on.

"Answer my question."

He reached out and turned on the radio, turning the dial to a Christmas channel playing Holiday Hits. Somehow, Natasha knew it didn't really have to do with the fact that he liked the holidays. He was the exact type of person who would hate holidays, anything having to do with them or even the mere mention of them.

"Turn that off," she complained, "the people are complaining."

"Have you gone mad?" But he did reach out again and switch the radio off. Silence filled the car. A silence that didn't invite anyone to break it. Of course, Natasha never was one to really adhere to the whole 'invitations' thing, so she cheerfully turned to him and said, "Is it because we're both orphans?"

"Keep talking and I will crash this car," he threatened.

"Is it?"

"You weren't cleared to see my file but you know I'm an orphan?"

"Oh, I didn't know that. I just guessed and watched your reaction. So you are an orphan. Okay. So am I. When did you lose your parents?"

"It's not too late for me to change my mind."

"Then answer my question."

Yassen sighed, taking a deep breath like he was trying to keep his patience. "My employers are interested in someone like...you."

"An utterly talentless, worthless girl?"

"I wouldn't go that far to call you worthless. Everyone has some worth. Some more than others. Perhaps I more then you, though that can always change in the future. But you have no past. And your present is not so good, is it? My employers like people like that."

"So you were one of those people."

Yassen tilted his head. "I suppose."

"What part of Russia are you from?"

Something flitted across his face. Pain? Sadness? A mixture of both? It was gone before she could label it. "You talk too much."

Invitations were meant to be broken. Not listened to, but there was only so many hors d'oeuvres and champagne someone could have before it wasn't just rude, but outright insensitive. She could be rude, but it was insensitivity that she drew the line at.

*(*)*

Behind the innocent, dumb girl facade, her intelligence was almost frightening. Had she gotten smarter or was she always like this? The time where she had knocked him out could have been labeled as a lucky accident; those did happen. He was young and inexperienced, and he may have been Malagasto trained but killers weren't fortune tellers.

But the signs were there. Dasha had been too happy to take her off his hands, though Yassen chose not to tell this to Natasha. Apparently, she was a pickpocket and a shameless flirt when it came to money, conning the drunk men that came to the club. Dasha couldn't stand those but Yassen had to grudgingly admire it. With those liquid brown eyes, wide, and innocent, and the dark curly hair that framed a cherubic face, she didn't look like a threat. But the bruises on his head, taking weeks to heal after she'd knocked him out, served as a valuable lesson to never underestimate someone.

As of now, she was an active threat.

He glanced sideways at her. She was looking out the window, a frown on her face. What was she thinking about? The paranoid side of his mind, the practical side, the survival side itched for him to knock her out. The other side told him to wait. She was clearly hungover. There were bags underneath her eyes and she still smelt like last night's vodka. He hadn't drunk vodka since he was fourteen and in Estrov. A skinny youth who probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere in life. He would not have survived for long outside of the small world he knew as his family and town. He was Yasha, a schoolboy who dreamt of being a helicopter pilot.

Now he was Yassen. He had no past, and the world was his stage. He could be the puppetmaster, the director or he could pull the strings from the side. Somehow, the second option appealed to him better. Being the main focus meant danger and threats. And now, if he wanted to fly a helicopter, he could do it. He could do almost anything, come to think of it, with the right money, right initiative, and right back up. It wasn't the first time he'd had these thoughts. They had come with more frequency when he was freshly graduated but John Rider, in his brutal, efficient, John Rider style, had cut those dreams down. He had reminded Yassen, multiple times. In his own words, he was "SCORPIA'S bitch until his contract was completed." So Yassen was aware that he had the world at his feet if he wanted, but only once SCORPIA was through with him first.

And now Natasha would get the same brutal lesson. He'd read her file-it seemed she'd had her fair share of brutal lessons. Bouncing from foster home to foster home, it seemed that her twin was the 'good' one. She had been with an abusive foster father, then abusive mother after mother until she ran at the age of seventeen. Yassen had lost his parents when he was fourteen, and he'd been on his own for four years, but by 'ran', Natasha had literally run. No foster home was willing to admit that their own negligence was the reason she had fled, so everyone latched onto the conclusion that she had been kidnapped. He didn't feel sorry for her. Rather, he enjoyed seeing the effects of those lessons in the person she'd become today. Innocent and dumb-looking to escape police and general radar, but deceptive enough to get by.

She was slightly older than him. Currently, he was twenty-two. She was twenty-five. She'd run until she'd gotten tired at the age of twenty. Then she'd joined her government and that's when the truly unfortunate happened because she didn't do her job. A year ago, Yassen was almost amazed. Certain that such an incompetent person meant a trap, or a test, from SCORPIA. Or her government.

But how much of it had been real and how much of it had been fake? The people tailing them couldn't be a coincidence. They weren't Russian. They spoke the language, or what little they could before he shot them. But they were not Russian. If they were SCORPIA'S, they would have told him. And anyway, they did such an incompetent job that if they were SCORPIA'S, the blame would fall on them more. And Yassen had picked his cover well. A Russian native staying in the region. Unmarried, but older then Yassen himself. The only way for someone to find them was if they had been tipped off. The thought had occurred to him after Mrs. Rothman's phone call last night.

So yes. Natasha had been right. He had touched her. He had carefully stripped her of her jacket, trying to find any suspicious oddities. There were none. Her jacket pockets were empty. She had no phone, no wallet, nothing indicative of identity. That made him more suspicious. If she had been a government agent, she would have something. Some ID. Had letting her slip away been a mistake? The pub had been a brisk hours walk; she had two hours to run. Even an hour could have been enough. She had been hammered enough when he had walked in, but he realized that he hadn't checked with the bartender when exactly she'd come in. It would be easy to down shots in a relatively small amount of time.

Her shirt was next. There was nothing there. No birthmarks, no skin patches, nothing of importance. There was a long red scar on her back, but it looked real. If there was an implant there, it had been a sloppy job.

Yassen had drawn the line at her bra. And her pants. He wasn't that bad. He may have been a killer but he wasn't a rapist. Rapist fell underneath more despicable categories.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked, interrupting his thoughts. He wasn't startled by the question but he didn't have an answer for it either. No one usually asked him his thoughts, unless it was on assassinations and mass terrorist acts, which he would be more than ready to provide input on.

"My employers contacted me," that was a safe response. One that would hopefully make sense not to elaborate on. Then again, Natasha wasn't once for sense.

"What did they say?"

"Time."

He saw her roll her eyes. "They called just to ask that?"

Once again, Natasha proved more intelligent then she was willing to let on. With her teeth biting her bottom lip, dark eyes focused on him, looking slightly confused, the question could have been innocent. But she was an active threat. So he selected his next words carefully.

"It is standard procedure," his tone was light though alarm bells were going off in his head. "Why do you ask?"

"It's suspicious. Why would they call just for us? Just for me?"

Or maybe it was insecurity. Was insecurity part of the act? Her cover kept getting more and more solid, now that he thought about it. And he didn't like coincidences. He didn't say anything more. He was half tempted to turn the radio on again, except he preferred silence over the cheery jingly music.

His excuse came with the appearance of a tavern.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yeah."

He handed her some money.

"You aren't coming in?" She sounded surprised. Or she was faking it.

"I will. My employers want to call me again."

"Do it inside."

"In privacy."

Natasha shrugged. "Find a bathroom or something,"

The alarm bells were in full motion now. "Natasha, do you want to tell me something?"

"What? No," her eyes widened. It was the eyes, he decided. The eyes that gave her away. And the eyes that masked her true nature. She was already half opening the car door, snow falling inside the car but he couldn't have cared less. "Don't you think you're being a little paranoid right now?"

"That's my job," he said, lunging across the seat and grabbing her. She gave a scream of surprise, trying to slip away. Yassen didn't let her. He dragged her back inside the car. The door was still open as she kicked her feet, trying to get him off. "I admire the act but it's fallen through. Let's start with who sent you."

"No one sent me!"

Yassen had debated the use of physical violence. He had no problem killing girls or women, but it wasn't exactly something he did on a regular basis either. Nor did he underestimate their power. He had been beaten up by women before, and it was as brutal as being beaten up by a man, if not more so. At least men didn't use their nails. He grabbed her wrist.

"I will break your wrist."

She remained silent, though her breathing had picked up. She knew he wasn't joking.

"My employers asked for you but there were no specifications you come quietly, or happily."

"No one could come happily with _you_," she muttered, darkly.

"What will it be?"

"I don't work for _anybody."_

His fingers grazed over the delicate underside of her hand, the veins that stuck out. His fingernail dug into one of them, and she tensed against him.

"I'm not lying!"

Her skin was warm and soft underneath his palm. Her bones were in the right place. Yassen could imagine the way they'd just out against his hand if he broke it just right. She turned her head to the side, her eyes shut. Why wasn't she resisting? Surely she should have been trying to move. Was it to reinforce the innocent act? Would she actually risk a broken wrist and more if it meant proving that she was just an innocent, dumb bimbo?

"It's not a mere coincidence that your government is after us. They have an informer."

"What?"

He grabbed her wrist. Pain was a good reinforcer. Something gold glinted around her neck, catching his eye.  
Of course, it was. How could he have been so stupid?

"Get on with it," her voice shook but there was some steely, determined calmness to it.

"Who gave you that locket?" He demanded.

"My mother. But what does that-"

He had unclipped the locket from her neck in seconds. She turned around, protesting, an annoyed look on her face.

"Close the door, please. You're letting a draft in."

She slammed the door shut. "That was the last thing I have from her."

Her parents had died when she was fifteen. That had been ten years ago. Ten years for someone to tamper with it. He opened the clasps on the locket, noting a picture of a woman who looked very much like Natasha. Her mother, presumably. He took out the picture. There was nothing more, but the bottom was suspiciously thin. Flimsy, even. He tapped it out onto his palm.

A small chip fell out. Yassen held it up, allowing Natasha to get a good look at it before he tossed it out of the window. It fell into the snow.

"Well, how was I supposed to know?"

"You can cut the act," he hissed, "because I'm not falling for it."

"Are you that fucking paranoid that you think every little thing I do is some kind of threat to you?" She yelled. "Because it's like you said-I'm incompetent and I'm stupid. I knew as much about the chip as you did."

This time, when she got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her, Yassen didn't protest. Her locket was still in his hand. If her government wanted her back that badly, he thought grimly, then they could come and get her from him.

*(*)*

When she came back, he didn't say much, just handed her back her locket and started the car again.

"Did you drink again?"

"Piss off," she snapped, though she maybe did have one too many beers. The world had suddenly become sharp, too sharp, and she closed her eyes, putting fingers on her forehead to stop the people from screaming so much. God, were they loud.

"It's nice to see that you like a variety of alcohol but this is too much."

"I said, piss off!"

Yassen's lip curled but he didn't say much. He could kill her, or at least severely maim her. He had told her so much as earlier. The people had come back, but they were being drowned out by the wave of alcohol coursing through her bloodstream. She felt dizzy, light-headed but at the same time, sick. It was a truly nasty feeling. She put her forehead against the window, rolling it down a little. The cold air made it feel a little better. She was just about drifting off when the car jolted, hitting a bump or something.

"Ow."

"Don't drink so much next time."

"Don't act so paranoid next time."

"That's my job."

She shook her head and regretted it. "Pull over!"

He sighed but pulled the car to the side of the road. She opened the door and stumbled out, vomiting the contents of her stomach, which was ninety percent alcohol anyway. The bitter taste of bile and vodka was strong in her mouth.

She got back in the car. Yassen was looking forward, completely relaxed with no expression on his face. His hands were on the steering wheel, loosing gripping the bottom. She buckled herself in. He still didn't move.

"Have you always been an alcoholic?"

"What? No." She had only started drinking since the incident last year. Or was it really since then? She tried to remember a day when she hadn't touched a bottle or glass, and couldn't remember. The thought filled her with mild panic. "I don't know, I mean."

"No one likes an alcoholic." He started the car.

Correction-his people didn't like it. Alcoholism had been rampant in her family for as long as she could remember. Her parents had been killed when her father had drunk a little too much. She felt nausea at the thought. She was drinking her parents' killer, their poison like it was water. But that didn't mean he had to tell her that. Obliviousness was bliss. Once again, Natasha questioned her decision to go with him. The only reason she trusted him in the first place was a very questionable reason, something that could fall through so easily. He had shown her love, no, not love, but compassion, once, and she was expecting it again. Why? Was she stupid? That was a well-established fact but even she had survival instincts. Why did she trust him? She shouldn't trust him. When she'd been on the run, she hadn't trusted anyone and she had survived but now that she was trusting him, bad things were happening to her. She could get out of the car now, and go back. Maybe Dasha would take her back. She'd even be willing to work for half the pay and half the alcohol. She just couldn't be in the car with this man any longer.

"I want to go back,"

"What?"

"Take me back."

"Has the alcohol knocked you in the brain?"

She opened the car door, though he had not yet stopped. "I'll jump," she threatened. "Stop the car."

He muttered something but pulled the car over to the side of the road. The snow was falling even harder by now, covering the world in a thick sheet. It was pretty but cold and deadly. Kind of like Yassen.

"I'm leaving,"

"How, exactly? We're at least a hundred miles away. You plan on walking back?"

Natasha pursed her lips. They both knew that in her current state, she wasn't even suited to walk in a straight line, much less one hundred miles in the snow and ice. "I don't care. I'll hitchhike."

"Too dangerous," he dismissed the idea almost immediately. "There are people after us. They don't care if we're dead or alive. They could easily kill you."

"Why the sudden concern if I live or not?"

Yassen regarded her with cool blue eyes. "My employers do not tolerate failure. I have already committed to bringing you to them. Whether I have to drag you there or you coming willingly is your choice."

Natasha made up her mind. Screw him. Screw his employers. She got out of the car and started walking in the opposite direction. She didn't even bother to close the doors or take back her luggage. There was nothing there besides clothing and clothing that was falling apart anyway. She could borrow something from the other girls, right? Never mind that she and the other girls hated each other and would have gladly thrown the others underneath the bus.

She didn't even hear the footsteps behind before a hand had closed around her arm in a vice, iron grip. She turned back, not exactly surprised.

"Kindly let go,"

The man ignored her. He was wearing a black jacket and hat. If she knocked him out, she'd be a lot more comfortable on the hundred-mile trek home. Her government had trained her in judo and karate. If she could get him on the ground, she might be able to pin him down long enough to do some actual damage.

"Yassen…" last chance. She lashed out with a side chop. It wasn't the best, it wasn't the fastest but against a normal civilian, it would have done its job.

He was anything but normal. Or a civilian. He grabbed her hand, twisting it to the side. It happened so fast that she barely had time to register what had happened before sharp bolts of pain went traveling up her arm. She yanked it out of his grasp, cradling it. Okay. So that wasn't going to do it.

"I stand by what I said. I can and will drag you."

"Just let me go, come on," she took another step, away from him. He didn't move, though his demeanor had changed. Colder, and sharper, suited with the snowy and icy environment around them. Had it gotten colder or was it just the way he was looking at her?

How far could she get before he would come after her? The tavern was a good fifteen miles away by this point, so if she managed to make it there without him catching up to her, she might be able to get help. Claim that this weird stalker guy she had never met before was following her.

It wasn't a good plan but it was okay. For now. Problem was, he was stronger, much faster than her, and just overall better. At everything, it seemed. He was somehow even better at standing there in the snow.

"I'll be going now,"

The hand came back and this time dragged her with him. She let oout a sputter, trying to somehow grab him and get his hands off her. It was no effect on the man. His hands were like steel clamps, not willing to let her go. Clearly, he was making the promise to drag her, if needed, too seriously.

"I can walk by myself!"

"Than walk." He said, not even hiding his distaste. He probably thought he was dealing with the tantrums of an angry toddler. He couldn't have been more wrong. As she had thought, he forced her ahead of him so that he was behind her. If she couldn't bring him down with proper combat, she'd take a more unconventional approach.

She pretended to stumble and when he went to grab her, she threw herself backward, onto him. She crashed into him and they fell onto the ground. It wouldn't have been a pretty fall; they were on an icy bit and with her weight, he was sure to have a few nasty bruises. She turned around, quickly, straddling him in the same way that he had almost a year ago-arms tucked by her knees, sitting out of reach of his legs. She grabbed his hat, putting it on.

"What are you doing?"

"Mugging you, what does it look like?"

"You think you will get very far?"

"Far enough from you, at least," she said, with the right amount of spite. Not bad, she thought, as she pulled off the jacket. This took maneuvering since he was lying there like a dead fish, and she had to take one hand out at a time. Both hands weren't something she could risk. She finally yanked it off and put it on. It was big for her, but not by much. It also smelled like him, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to steal it. She could always wash it, right? "Now, I'm going to knock you out and then you can come after me, alright?"

"Normally, people don't tell other people that-" he broke off with a loud swear in Russian as she jammed her palm down onto his face, hard. Damn. It wasn't even hard enough to break it. "You stupid girl-"

She grabbed his head and smashed it into the ground. Despite this, he gave her a wholly unimpressed look. She tried again. Damn it, she couldn't exactly kick him in the head, could she? How exactly did you knock people out otherwise? There must be another way, right?

He sighed. "Did you try choking me?"

"Why?" She asked suspiciously.

"Cut off airflow to my head and I'll pass out." He managed to sound condenscing and teacher like, even with blood coming out of his nose. Was he a teacher? She could kind of see it. He was strict enough and generally a bastard, so he did kind of fit the teacher bill.

"Like this?" She started to squeeze his neck. He passed out almost instantly. This was too easy. Way too easy. She smiled, got up and started walking. When she glanced back, he was still passed out in the snow. She felt a little bad, leaving him like that, but if he froze there, there would be no one coming after her, right?

*(*)*

The stupid girl didn't even check to see if he had passed out. He waited five minutes, then ten. She should be out of view by now. Slowly, he sat up. The blood streaming down his face had quickly turned into a cold liquid. He didn't even bother to wipe it off as he limped back to the car. His back felt sore. Gingerly, he looked through the car. There wasn't another spare jacket.

He didn't curse her out because revenge would be cold and sweet. He got back in the car. She was going to follow the path that they had just come back from. His phone rang. Mrs. Rothman again.  
"Ma'am,"

"Cossack. I wonder what the delay is." She spoke fluent Russian. He had no idea where she had learned it. And if she was asking him, in _that _tone, then she most probably knew.

"Minor setbacks, ma'am. I suspect her government may be tracking us."

"Oh?"

"Nevertheless, her loyalties seem to lie in our favor." This was a lie. He didn't know where her loyalties lay. Still, admitting that to Mrs. Rothman was a death sentence. He may have a favorite, but he was not entirely saved from her. "It appears that her government has gained possession of her."

"And what are you doing about that?"

He considered snarking back a "finding her" but just because he was in a bad mood didn't mean he needed to take it out on someone. Especially if that someone could easily order his execution. No. The person to take this out on was currently the one running away from him.

Why hadn't she taken the car? The keys had been left in the ignition, the car still running when she had chosen to run. It would have been a simple matter of pushing the car forward, in a U-turn, and going the other direction. Yassen had been presumably passed out in the snow, and she could have run him over if she wished. That would have certainly been more convenient for her.

But she hadn't.

"I am tracking her as we speak, ma'am. She hasn't gone very far."

"Alright," there was a pause. "How did you say you met her again?"

He hadn't, actually. He had conveniently not brought up this detail in the report he had given her, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she noticed.

"Cossack?"

"My apologies, ma'am. We first met when I broke into their apartment for the files you requested. We had a conversation; I saw potential in her. She was bitter and it was clear that her position wasn't good. I offered her a chance. She didn't take it then. Now, however…" he let his voice trail off, allowing her to connect the blanks.

"Very good. I want a report by tonight."

The phone disconnected. No more questions. She had gotten what she wanted. Yassen put the phone aside, concentrating on the road. It was so dark by this point, but so dark outside, it could have been night. He saw the lights of the tavern up ahead.

Natasha was going to pay.

**Okay, so just a heads up but Grammarly has been glitching on this, and so there might be some words missing. If there are, just point them out and I'm so sorry about that. **

**Really, Grammarly? Weird much? **

**Anyway, I don't know about Natasha but I kind of want her to be, I don't know, like a grey character. Like, she doesn't lean too much and it's clear she doesn't really have a lot of loyalty towards her government. As for Yassen, he's twenty-three and I like to imagine he was a little more partial towards attachment and romance. Of course, I think this story would be a lot more different if he and Natasha had encountered each other when he was thirty or so. **

**Special thanks to Oberonai and vamperimmi for following and favoriting this story. I appreciate the support! **

**Happy Writing! I'm still in India, but this is my last night here. :( **

**I have school in two days. Let's see how that goes. **

**-Amber **


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